


What Fools These Mortals Be...

by DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee



Series: True Love or Something [7]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, M/M, Renaissance Faires, Ridiculous amounts of fluff, Shakespearean insults
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 12:55:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8845894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee/pseuds/DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee
Summary: “I can’t believe Hunk and Pidge convinced you to come to the renaissance faire with them.”  “I can’t believe you’re wearing tights.” “Hey, they are hose and they are under very respectable breeches.”  “Totally tights.” “Are not.” 
Keith gets dragged to the renaissance faire by his crazy neighbors.  He doesn't actually mind. 
Takes place a few months after 'Gotta Take A Bow' but before Lance moves in.





	

**Author's Note:**

> YOU GUYS ARE THE BEST.   
>  THANK YOU EVERYONE FOR YOUR COMMENTS, YOU MAKE ME SO HAPPY. 
> 
> I'm still sick so I'm just writing self-indulgent fluff and abusing my knowledge of Shakespearean insults. (I have a deck of Shakespearean insult playing cards and I liberally sampled them for one of the scenes in this fic). Not all renaissance faires are the same, this one is loosely modeled off of one I volunteered at for a summer a few years ago but that doesn't mean it represents all renaissance faires ever. And yes, I am a nerd who knows the proper use of thee and thou in a sentence and can speak in faire-speak. 
> 
> I've gotten a few questions about art for this series, so here's a blanket statement: I WELCOME ALL ART. Just let me know if you make anything so I can look at it and be very, very impressed. :)

**What Fools These Mortals Be...**

            Keith starts the day with a lot of regrets. He regrets setting his alarm for 8am. He regrets not bothering to go to the grocery store last night – hence why he set his alarm for 8am – so he could go to the grocery store before the crowds. This would have been a decent plan. Not clever, but decent, if he hadn’t forgotten last night when he passed on stopping by the grocery store because he was tired and cranky and running late for a meeting that he didn’t have any coffee. Or food. Or shampoo. He’s also dangerously low on soap. Or really anything that made life worth living.

            Standing in the middle of his depressingly barren kitchen Keith almost decides to just give up on the day and crawl back in bed. The glaring absence of everything needed to sustain life could be a problem for Future Keith.

            Then he remembers the dumbwaiter and the fact that his neighbors are never awake before 10am on a Saturday. (Admittedly, sometimes Lance has to be at the Community Center early, but if that were the case he would have already left). And Hunk never lets the kitchen run out of food. And Pidge never lets the kitchen run out of coffee. And boyfriend rights means stealing Lance’s shampoo is totally okay, right? Right.

            The possibility of coffee, breakfast, coffee, a decent shower, and more coffee is enough to get Keith moving. He crawls through the dumbwaiter and makes a beeline for the kitchen, making sure each footfall is as silent as possible to avoid waking up the probably-slumbering Pidge and Hunk…

            “HAIL TO THEE, STRANGER!”

            What. The. Fuck.

            Keith freezes like a cat caught where it’s not supposed to be and slowly turns, ready to bolt, to face a sight that he’s pretty sure he’s not caffeinated enough to process right now.

            Hunk. Wearing a mustard-yellow medieval tunic, brown trousers, and a metal breastplate. A helmet sits on the couch beside him, yellow plume trailing onto the armrest. He’s currently wrestling a pair of gauntlets onto his hands and grinning like a lunatic.

            “What.” Keith’s pretty sure his brain just shorted out.

            “Hunk, where’s my belt pouch?” Pidge yells, clomping down the stairs; a forest green front-laced overdress billowing behind her. Underneath she wears a cream-colored blouse and what look like brown leggings and tall black boots with…buckles. Those are buckles.

            “It lieth here, Mistress Gunderson,” Hunk tosses a brown leather pouch to her.

            Pidge catches it with an eye-roll, “Can we save the faire-speak for when we’re actually _at the faire_?”

            “But that’s half the fun.”

            “English has evolved, Hunk, I say we’re doing a disservice to our ancestors pretending it hasn’t.”

            Hunk shakes his head like he can’t imagine the foolishness of this statement, when he suddenly remembers Keith’s still here; frozen, staring at this bizarre spectacle.

            “Oh, hey Keith. Did Lance tell you about the faire today?”

            “What is _happening_?” Keith half-whines, too tired and sleep-fuddled to even begin to grasp what’s happening right now.

            Pidge rolls her eyes, “I’m gonna take that as a no.”

            “Yeah.”

            “The Renaissance Faire,” Hunk says cheerfully, “It’s an annual thing. The whole town participates. Well, sort of. The guilds and vendors and cast members actually do all the work, but Pidge and Lance and I are regulars. We’re not part of the actual cast but we have established characters and we go and improv with the cast characters every year. Lance is taking a group of Community Center kids today on a field trip, that’s why he’s not here if you were looking for him.”

            Keith is not quite sure how to explain that he’d prioritized finding coffee over finding his boyfriend.

            Pidge has a dangerous gleam in her eye, though, which tells Keith that she knows all his secrets, including the fact that he’s forgotten to do laundry two weeks in a row. “You could come with us, if you want?”

            “What?” Keith feels like he’s been saying that too much today. Considering he’s said it more than all other words combined today…probably.

            “Let him get some coffee first, Pidge,” Hunk says gently, with an apologetic smile in Keith’s direction. How do these people know all his secrets?!

            “How…”

            “Lance let a note,” Hunk explains, holding out a sticky note Keith is 75% sure is part of the neon blue pad of sticky notes that went ‘mysteriously missing’ last week.

            _Hey guys,_ the note reads, _Keith probably forgot to buy more coffee yesterday, so don’t freak out if he breaks in and steals breakfast._

            Dammit. How does Lance know him so well?

            Keith just sort of sighs and deflates. “Yeah. I forgot coffee. Or food. And I think I’m out of shampoo.”

            “Dude, you are pathetic,” Pidge says flatly.

            Keith glares at her, but it’s weak. “The end of the season is really busy.”

            Hunk just grins. “Don’t sweat it, man. Take whatever you want. We’ll wait.”

            “Why?”

            “So you can come to the faire with us!”

            “Yeah, Keith,” Pidge is grinning slightly maliciously and Keith fears for his life if he refuses, “Come to the faire with us.”

            He sighs. “Fine. But I’m not dressing up.”

            “Pssh, you don’t have the gear for it,” Pidge says dismissively.

            “Right. I’ll just get that coffee now.”

…

            “Okay, so crash course on our characters,” Hunk explains, as they stroll to the ticket booth, “When we’re on faire grounds Pidge is Mistress Gunderson –”

            “But her last name is Holt.”

            Pidge elbows him, “What part of ‘fictional identities’ don’t you get?”

            Keith sighs. He was really hoping to get a break from actors for a day. No such luck.

            “So,” Hunk redirects his attention, “Pidge is Mistress Gunderson, and I’m the Yellow Knight.”

            “Mistress Gunderson, Yellow Knight.”

            “Lance doesn’t have a character name because he couldn’t decide on one when we first started doing this and calling him sir Lance just brought on a lot of stupid Lancelot jokes,” Pidge explains.

            “So we just kind of yell ‘hey you’ at him and hope he responds,” Hunk says apologetically.

            “And does he?”

            “It’s fifty-fifty.”

            “If he would just agree to be the court jester this wouldn’t be a problem,” Pidge grumbles, “then we could just yell ‘hey Fool!’ and it would be historically accurate and realistic.”

            Keith chokes on a laugh. It’s not a bad day for an outdoor fair, the early-summer sun is high in the sky, it’s not too hot yet, and it’s early enough that the crowds are pretty low. He’s comfortable in his black t-shirt and jeans. He considered wearing one of the plain black ones but this one seemed more thematically appropriate. It had at least made Hunk chuckle and Pidge cackle. On the front it reads ‘A Winter’s Tale – act 3, scene 3’ and on the back it says ‘Exit Pursued by Bear’. It’s probably the nerdiest t-shirt he owns next to the one that says ‘It’s Tech Week Somewhere’. He’d blame Shiro and his brother’s tendency to give dorky Christmas gifts but this one is all Keith’s fault. He should not be allowed onto the internet with a credit card after midnight.

            Although he contends that the coffee mug that says ‘To Quote Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 3 – “No”’ was still a good purchase. He likes to sip coffee from it while staring at people until they get uncomfortable and stop talking. It’s the little things that make work fun.

            “You don’t have a character,” Pidge bluntly states the obvious, “but respond to us as if we are our characters unless there is a genuine emergency. You are here in a purely observer capacity, got it?”

            “You guys take this really seriously.”

            “Yep,” Hunk says easily.

            “Got it?” Pidge demands.

            “I got it.” Keith holds up his hands in surrender. Today is going to be an odd day.

…

            Today is definitely an odd day. He’s been called out on his street clothes no less than six times and it’s only been an hour. And it’s all been in old English. Sort of. Some people really need to work on their grammar.

            Keith actually interrupts one guy mid-comment.

            “Okay, yeah, I get it, I’m dressed like a freak. But seriously, for the love of god, look up the proper use of thee and thou. Shakespeare is actually crying right now.”

            The guy stares at him, dumbfounded.

            Keith sighs. “Begone, wretched knave!” he finally shouts, inwardly cringing.

            The guy scuttles off, still casting glances at Keith over his shoulder.

            “Thy mother was a hamster and thy father smelt of elderberry!” Keith yells after him because why the fuck not.

            “Perhaps there be hope for thee yet,” Pidge intones solemnly at his side.

            “You realize I just quoted Monty Python in Elizabethan prose, right?”

            Pidge shrugged, “I know not of what thou speaks.”

            “I can’t tell if you’re being in-character or you really don’t get it.”

            Pidge gives him a mysterious smile and Keith sighs. The one time he makes a pop culture reference…

…

            So it turns out Hunk can eat Pidge’s weight in turkey legs and it’s simultaneously horrifying and exhilarating to watch.

            When he finishes the second to last leg Pidge leaps to her feet, whooping and Keith flinches at the sudden burst of sound right next to his ear.

            When someone in the row in front of them turns around and scoffs, “Some decorum, Mistress,” at Pidge, she snorts.

            “Your heart is cramm’d with arrogancy, spleen and pride,” she tells the stranger, chin lifted defiantly as she whoops again.

            Keith chuckles and when she sits down leans over and says “Henry VIII, act 2, scene 4.”

            She grins at him; “There may be hope for thee yet, peasant.”

            “Well that was just un-called-for.”

            Onstage, Hunk crams another turkey leg in his mouth, tearing off another huge chunk. The only contestant left is weakly nibbling at their fourth-to-last-leg.

            “Why do they even let Hunk enter these things?” Keith asks Pidge, “It’s obvious he’s going to win.”

            Pidge shrugs, “Methinks they enjoy witnessing the Yellow Knight defeat his record of yesteryear.”

            “So basically it’s about watching Hunk beat his record for most turkey legs eaten in an hour.”

            Pidge nods.

            Keith shakes his head, “Eating contests confuse me.”

…

            They run into Allura after the eating contest. Hunk seems entirely un-phased by consuming a farm’s worth of turkey legs and Keith is wondering if he’s even human. Allura looks like an actual renaissance princess, her long silvery hair down around her shoulders, crowned by a gold circlet, her dress a pastel confection of velvet and satin cut in the Italian style.

            “Hail to thee travelers!” she calls, giving them a delicate wave.

            “Greetings, Lady Altea,” Hunk and Pidge chorus, sweeping into bows and curtsies. Keith just sort of awkwardly waves because no, he is not going to bow to Allura. That would be weird. (He ignores the internal voice that says it would be no weirder than insulting some uppity stranger with bastardized Monty Python quotes).

            “I see thou hast brought a wanderer from the New World with thee,” Allura says grandly, every inch the noble woman, her natural grace translating surprisingly well to the heavy garments. Did that woman even sweat? She looked pristine, even though the sun had been beating down on them all morning.

            “Um, yeah. That would be me,” Keith says awkwardly.

            “Thy apparel pleases me, sir wanderer,” Allura says smoothly, a glint of humor in her eye, “I find great merriment in Master Shakespeare’s works. To what precisely does your garmet’s epitaph refer?”

            Keith sighs – he feels like he’s been doing that a lot today – and turns around so she can read the back of his shirt.

            Sure enough, Allura’s laugh rings out and when he turns to face her again she is beaming. “That is my favorite of Master Shakespeare’s stage directions.”

            “Yeah. Impossible to stage, though.”

            “Mm. Perhaps.”

            Keith has a horrifying image of Allura asking a bear politely if he could please cross from stage right to stage left and, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, not maul the audience.

            Luckily Pidge steps in before he can decide if she’s kidding or not. “My lady, is your father granting audiences to questers?”

            “Yes, indeed, Lord Alfor is on the throne of the Lion Court this morn,” she says elegantly.

            “Most excellent, my lady,” Hunk booms, “We shall proceed to Lord Alfor’s court if it pleases your ladyship.”

            “Permission granted, questers,” she says, biting back a laugh and instead infusing her smile with warmth.

            “Onward to glory!” Hunk declares grandly.

            “Yeah, that,” Keith agrees awkwardly, “Uh, farewell, milady?”

            Allura laughs, “Fare thee well, stranger!”

…

            So it turns out that ‘questing’ means waiting for an audience with one of the ‘lords’ of the faire cast and doing some absurd task set by him or her in exchange for a stamp on your map of the faire and a pin with a small ribbon. Each court – there are multiple, like, five? Keith isn’t sure – has a different stamp (a lion for Allura’s) and a different colored ribbon (gold for Allura’s). Keith opts out of standing in line and doing something ridiculous for minimal reward in favor of climbing one of the wooden parapets and people-watching while Hunk and Pidge pursue ‘greater glory’.

            “Hey,” a voice calls from below, “I don’t think you’re supposed to climb on those.”

            “Oh thank god, someone who speaks American English,” Keith says without thinking, glancing down to see Lance staring up at him, a broad smile on his face.

            “Hey, babe. You’re going to burn like a lobster in that t-shirt.”

            “Wow, the romance is dead,” Keith deadpans as Lance climbs up to sit next to him.

            “Hey, I climbed this here tower for you, princess.”

            “Not a princess.”

            “I still think I should get a kiss.”

            Keith considers a snappy retort, but Lance is here, warm and sun-flushed with eyes full of light and he figures a kiss is worth not getting the last word.

            Lance grins at him when they pull apart, “I can’t believe Hunk and Pidge convinced you to come.”

            “I can’t believe you’re wearing tights.”

            “Hey, they are _hose_ and they are _under_ very respectable breeches.”

            “Totally tights.”

            “Are not.”

            “You forget that I know where costume pieces come from. I have to make lists of what Wardrobe needs to replace every time we do a historical play. I know things.”

            “You’re no fun,” Lance huffs, but loops an arm around Keith’s neck and pulls him close, burying his face in Keith’s hair, “You smell like sunshine.”

            “Sunshine doesn’t have a smell.”

            “Does too,” Lance sniffs deeply again and Keith makes a half-hearted attempt to squirm away, “And my shampoo. You totally forgot to go to the grocery store.”

            “Yeah.”

            “It’s kind of hot.”

            “My forgetting to go to the grocery store?”

            “No, you smelling like me.”

            “You’re so weird.”

            Lance chuckles and Keith can feel the vibration through his ribs. “Nah, it’s biology. Family groups needing to smell like each other. So you can recognize your mate.”

            “Like I said, weird,” Keith says but there’s not heat to the words. He turns his head so Lance’s chin is hooked over the top of his skull, absently rubbing his face on Lance’s doublet – it’s blue velvet and very soft, “Shouldn’t you be supervising small children?”

            “The other chaperones have ‘em. They’re doing quests. It’s my break.”

            “You spent your break sitting in the structural supports of a wooden parapet, people-watching with me? Lame,” Keith teases, “ Shouldn’t you be smoking or getting a tattoo or something equally edgy?”

            “I’m pretty sure a tattoo would take way longer than fifteen minutes and I sniffed your hair inappropriately if that counts as edgy?”

            “Weird is not the same as sexy.”

            “Now you know that’s not true.”

            “Well, I am dating you.”

            Lance pinches him, “Rude.”

            “Hey, I love you so I’ve got to be at least as weird.”

            Lance kisses the side of his head absently, “Yeah, I’ll take that.”

            They stay up in the parapet watching costumed people mill and seethe below them until Pidge shows up and chucks stale bread at them. “Get thy asses down here forthwith you filthy waton knaves!”

…

            They get lunch with Lance and the Community Center kids (who line up and chorus “Hail to thee, sirs and madam” on command and it’s kind of ridiculously cute). Hunk eats even more turkey legs and Keith is pretty sure he can never look a turkey in the face again. Lance and Pidge get an assortment of stews in bread bowls and they trade them back and forth easily, including Keith in the exchange. The kids all get meat (or vegetable) pies and make a reasonably containable mess.

            It’s…nice. In a weird, medieval way.

            Somehow along the way Keith gets dragged into a competition to see who can remember the most Shakespearean insults while the kids tear around the play area, energized by the sun and the sodas that had come with their meat/veggie pies. He’s pretty sure Pidge started it with “You rise to play and go to bed to work” ( _Othello_ ).

            But Lance follows that up with “You are an index and obscure prologue to the history of lust and wanton thoughts” (also _Othello_ ) so Pidge is not really the only one at fault here.

            And then they’re both looking at Keith so he throws up his hands and tosses in “Tis such fools as you that makes the world full of ill-favored children” ( _As You Like It_ ).

            Which Hunk answers with “You show yourself highly fed and lowly taught” ( _All’s Well That Ends Well_ ).

            And they go on like this until Lance seems to have won with a triumphant “Villain, I have done thy mother” ( _Titus Andronicus_ ).

            But Keith shrugs and says nonchalantly, “Bastard begot, bastard instructed, bastard in mind, bastard in valor, in everything illegitimate…farewell, bastard” ( _Troilus and Cressida_ ).

            That’s enough to inspire impromptu applause from his friends so Keith, high on the sun and the bizarre intellectual challenge of excavating his Shakespearean vocabulary, jumps up on the picnic table bench and executes a perfect courtly bow, which has Pidge whooping again and Lance wolf-whistling.

            Flushed with victory, Keith drops back down onto the bench and lets Lance sling an arm around his neck and kiss his cheek soundly.

            “Out of character!” Pidge yells but there’s laughter in her voice and Lance sticks his tongue out at her and everything is bright and beautiful.

…

            Lance and the kids have to leave soon after that, but Hunk and Pidge stick around for a few hours afterwards – mostly so Hunk can annihilate the javelin toss and Pidge can scam the gypsy guild out of a ridiculous amount of wooden tokens at the gaming tables. Keith wanders into the pirate tent and finds the beer garden and lots of cheap, terrible alcohol, which definitely makes Hunk’s javelin adventures and Pidge’s low-key gambling much funnier. They leave stumbling and laughing and have to call Lance to come pick them up.

            “Seriously, guys?” Lance complains, “There isn’t overnight parking. I’m going to have to come back in a taxi to get Hunk’s car and drive it back.”

            But he stops whining when Keith drapes himself over him when he climbs out of the driver’s seat.

            “Love you,” Keith mumbles into Lance’s shoulder – now clad in a t-shirt worn soft from too many washings. It’s black. “You’re wearing my shirt. Thief.”

            “Yeah well, now we smell like each other,” Lance says easily, “And you kind of left it on my floor.”

            Keith’s eyes get comically huge, “ _That’s_ where it went.”

            Lance snorts, “You’re a total lightweight, babe.”

            “Yep,” Keith agrees easily, cuddling closer.

            “You’re gonna have to let go so I can get back in the car and drive.”

            “Okay.” Keith doesn’t move.

            Lance sighs. “Pidge and Hunk are already in the car. I’m pretty sure Hunk is asleep and if I let Pidge stay in there too long she’s gonna reprogram all my radio presets.”

            “It’s okay. Your stations are crap,” Keith says easily.

            “Wow, rude. You are rude.”

            “Not _bad_ crap,” Keith clarifies, “I like it. But it’s mil- millen – millionenial trash.”

            “Millennial trash.”

            “Nice trash. I like it.”

            “So you’ve mentioned,” Lance gives up and loops his arms around Keith’s waist, letting them sway together. “Hey, babe? Are we high school sway-dancing right now?”

            “Can hear the music from the faire,” Keith mutters into his collarbone.

            And they can hear the faintest strains of the courts’ farewell music drifting through the air and on the horizon the sun is setting in a orange-gold-red triumph of colors and it’s…nice. It’s really nice.

            Lance smiles into Keith’s hair and lets them high school sway-dance for a few seconds longer.

…

            A few minutes later Pidge slams on the horn shouting “Get in losers, I fixed your pre-set radio stations. The drive back is gonna _rock_!”

           

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title from 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' by William Shakespeare.


End file.
